With Love From Ma Maguire (21 page)

‘I will. If it’s money you want, I’ll do anything—’

‘For me silence? Pay me to keep the gob shut, will you? Coward! No, I’ll take not one penny from you. But you’ll pay in other ways. I’ll get you, just wait and see.’

He stood by the door, a hand to his bloodstreaked face. ‘I care about you, Molly! For God’s sake, won’t you listen? It’s not just what we’ve done – that’s only a part of it. You’re alive and beautiful, a fine woman in the making. I want you with me—’

‘As a member of your . . . what are they called? Harems? Is that it? Am I supposed to just lie here and let it happen, be grateful ’cos you’re noticing me? I don’t want to be that kind of special, lad! I want me own man to meself, not summat I share and pass round like a bloody plate of cakes!’ There was pride in her tired voice. ‘My dad was chapel, a God-fearing man with a heart you could never match. That was love, what him and me mam had. Love means . . . oh, giving things up, making room for one another, going without for somebody else’s sake, living day to day and sharing everything. And if me mam was here now, she’d choke you with her bare hands for all she was four foot ten. Don’t you ever forget, Charlie Swainbank, I’ve still got a mam, a mam as could bring you down by batting a single eyelash. There’s plans. Marches, strikes, go-slows – the lot. Ma Maguire hates your kind.’

‘Are you threatening me?’

‘I am. Even a bloody great fool like yourself must see that! Don’t ever come near me again.’

‘You enjoyed it.’ His voice was cooler.

‘Did I? Well, I thought there was a bit more to it than that, to be honest. There again, I didn’t notice half of it with being near asleep.’

Yes, she knew where to kick a man, didn’t she? That innocent awareness again, that wisdom extending far beyond her years, way past her limited education. He found himself shaking, suddenly terrified of what he had done. All women valued their virginity, but this one had the brains to fight back now it was all over, was sufficiently fiery and unpredictable to make him shiver with fear. What was this power she had, this indefinable strength? And where had she got it? He smiled grimly at the rhetorical question in his mind. Would she tell the old girl? Would she run to Ma? He coughed quietly. ‘What will you do?’

‘That’s for me to know and for you to worry and wonder over. Now, get out of this room or I scream the place down.’

‘Molly.’ He took a step towards her.

‘Don’t you know me yet, Swainbank? I mean what I say, always mean what I say. Do you realize I used to feel sorry for you having such a rotten family? Your mother’s as ugly as sin, horrible from the inside, so bad it shows in her face. I’m glad she’s crippled, glad she hurts. And the old feller’s on his way – happen we’ll get cleaner air when he’s hopped it. They’re in you like poison and I hate you too! So get out before I bring the slates off the roof!’

He slipped out of the room, too intent on escape to notice Cook’s door slowly closing as he made his quiet descent. With his mind working overtime, he left the house and made for the stables. In the morning, he would say he’d heard a horse in trouble, would swear he’d been kicked to the ground, that his injuries were from falling among the cobbles.

In her room, Molly vomited violently, stomach heaving as she retched over the blue and white washbowl. Alone, she felt none of the courage she’d expressed to him, all that false strength dredged up from the bottom of her soul, the righteous anger she’d supported on a shallow foundation built of no more than self-esteem. But that was crumbling now. She felt dirty, ashamed of her willing participation. It was his fault, right enough, but she could have screamed earlier, should have put a stop to it.

What now? She dried her face and swept a glance over the room that had become hers, a happy place where she’d read her penny dreadfuls and indulged her childish dreams. No more of those now, because she’d been dragged into womanhood, had allowed it, even welcomed it! What kind of person was she? Bad? Like him?

Noiselessly, Molly Dobson packed her few possessions in a battered cardboard case, deliberately leaving behind everything he had given her, stuffing the three dresses into a bottom drawer, pushing shoes, ribbons and scarves into the small cupboard. They could think what they liked. After a last quick glance at the bed, she picked up the bowl to carry out for emptying. But it slipped from uncertain fingers, bouncing silently on the bed, its nasty contents spilling over quilt and floor. She made some small attempt to clean up the resulting mess, using as mops the few handkerchieves she owned. It was hopeless. No way could she manage, not with her stomach still heaving menacingly. Doubtless the poor kitchen maid would be left to deal with the dirt, and this knowledge made Molly even angrier. What she needed now was fresh air. Fresh air and escape . . .

She sat on an upturned barrel in the courtyard, a thick shawl covering the flimsy coat. Although she wanted to get away, what remained of her senses dictated that she must wait for dawn. When he emerged from the stable, she remained stunned for several seconds before slipping quietly down against the wall among deeper shadows. Her heart pounded in her ears as he approached and she flattened herself against the cold stones, praying that he had not noticed her.

He stood within feet of her. In spite of her own almost deafening distress, she could hear him breathing heavily, sighing like some injured animal, groaning and mumbling into the black night. Then she heard a choking sound, followed by the unmistakable noise of sobbing. With a hand to her mouth, she forced back her own tears, listening as he whispered her name over and over. It was one of the most terrible things she had ever heard, yet worse than that was her desire to run to him and offer comfort, forgiveness, anything that might stem that dreadful tide of grief. But she held on grimly, knowing, just as she had always known, that he was a dream, a mere piece of imagination, like a character from one of the romances she used to read. Just as she would have closed a book, she shut herself off from an ending that could never be happy or even satisfactory.

He stumbled away towards the house, out of her life, but never far from her mind. Because Charles Swainbank took a piece of Molly Dobson with him, a part of herself that was irretrievable, irreplaceable. And she would never, ever allow herself to forget that.

Ma Maguire, though outwardly composed, felt about as stable as an unexploded bomb. Deep inside her chest the anger rumbled, occasionally threatening to erupt at the most unexpected times. Almost from the start she had known the truth, a truth that was too awful to face. Molly, like her mother, showed symptoms unbelievably early. With all her pregnancies, Edie Dobson had been sick from the moment of conception. Then there was the other thing, that almost imperceptible altering of facial colouring, a darkness on the cheeks and eyelids . . . No! It couldn’t be, mustn’t be true! But it was, oh yes, dear God, it was! She clenched her fists tightly as she heard Edie’s voice echoing down the years, ‘I always knew. Right from the bloody kick-off, I were sick as a pig – even before I’d missed. And me face used to go a bit brownish . . .’

Ma sat at the large square table watching Cissie Mathieson’s fat red hands kneading dough, pummelling and punching the greyish substance as if she were attacking an enemy. This was a fine pickle and no mistake, but Ma realized that the woman knew something, that she was simply shielding herself to save the job. Well, Ma would hang on here till she got to the bottom of things – or as near the root as possible. She smiled at the busy cook. ‘So. The feet are still fine, then?’

‘Aye. I put the stuff on after a bath like you told me.’

‘Good.’ Ma placed the new pot of balm on the table. ‘’Tis Molly,’ she said, knowing she would have to choose her words with care. ‘Just came home without saying a word. I can get nothing out of her, so I thought you might shed a little light?’

Cook divided the dough with a sharp knife and threw it into three square tins. ‘All I know is that the bed was covered with sick, so she can’t have been so well.’

Ma nodded. ‘Yes, I can see that. But if she was ill, how did she manage to pack up her things and get all the way back to Bolton?’

‘I’ve no idea.’ She carried the uncooked loaves across to the oven, then returned with a large teapot. ‘Sugar?’ she asked as she poured.

‘Just the one, thanks.’

They sat in silence through two cups each, Cissie’s face getting redder by the minute. ‘It’s nowt to do with me anyroad,’ she said at last. ‘All I know is she come in late and covered in muck. I gave her a bit of a roasting and packed her off upstairs.’

‘Who was it, Cook?’ Ma’s voice remained even and careful. Perhaps Molly was the lucky one after all. Not many poor girls in her situation had someone by them to recognize the signs. And not many poor girls would show their condition so early on . . .

‘I’m saying nowt, Ma. Look, you know how I’m fixed – no husband, no family. Where do I go if I fetch trouble round here, eh?’

‘There’ll be no mention of you, I promise that. And I’m a woman of my word, that you can be sure of.’

Cissie reached for a scone and a bit off a huge chunk, turning to food just as she always did in times of stress. ‘I’m saying no names,’ she mumbled, her mouth full.

‘Somebody here in this house?’

The cook shook her head vehemently, crumbs spilling down her apron. ‘Leave it, Ma. There’s nowt to be gained—’

‘Isn’t there?’ Ma’s tone was grimmer now.

‘No, there’s not! I mean, she’s never caught, has she? Even if she had, you’d not know this early on—’

‘I know nothing, Cissie, except that my girl came here clean and left tampered with. If you won’t tell me, then I’ll have to go upstairs, won’t I? Will I do that? Will I say you sent me up? Look, I don’t mean to threaten, but I surely need to know who made her so ill. It’s not her body that’s sick, ’tis her mind. She sits all the day gazing through the bedroom window, not a word will she utter—’

‘Don’t go up! For God’s sake—’

‘And for yours.’ She leaned back in the chair. ‘Right. Let’s be having some sense out of you now. Was it a servant, a member of the staff?’

‘No.’

‘A casual visitor, then? One of the farm workers, perhaps a drover?’ Aye, it might even have been Paddy—

‘It wasn’t any of them.’

Ma’s heart turned over in her chest. ‘Family, then.’ This was no question. The cook didn’t move, didn’t even bat an eyelid, just sat very still and stared into her empty cup.

‘Right.’ The visitor rose from the table, picking up Cook’s payment for medication and placing it in her purse. ‘This need go no further, Cissie. I know you can hold your tongue and I will surely hold mine. Thank you for the tea and I trust that your health will continue good.’

Ma Maguire stood in the grounds and stared hard at the splendid frontage of Briars Hall. Brick by brick, stone by stone she had cursed it in the past, would have brought it down with her bare hands at times given half a chance. It was built on blood, was this place, founded on sweat, tears and early death. People had starved in cellars while Richard’s father had thrived in his newly acquired and extended mansion. Aye. She nodded sagely. In cursing this house, she had cursed her own too, because the link was finally forged. That Molly carried a Swainbank in her belly was beyond doubt. The father was Charles, giver of dress lengths and shoes, he who promoted maids from kitchen to parlour where they would doubtless be more accessible. Yes, it was Charles all right. Otherwise Molly would never have been parted from her pretty dresses and ribbons, would never have arrived home with the case half-empty, would never have arrived home at all.

By the time she reached Bolton, Ma’s anger was fully fuelled yet cold, iced down by an iron will. This was one time when she must keep her head, suppress the strong urge to go for Charles with fists and shoes flying, stop herself from killing him no matter what the price. The plan was complete, finalized in her mind, needed no bits of paper to make it real. Not yet. Papers would come later . . .

The workers greeted her noisily as she stepped into the shed, warps and wefts temporarily abandoned while they shouted out to one of their dearest friends and supporters. Cries of, ‘All right, Ma?’ and ‘Are we coming out, then?’ reached her ears above the sound of machinery, but she merely waved a hand on her way to the office.

They were both in, the older man seated at his huge desk, the younger standing by a window with a sheaf of papers and a pen. Richard made an effort to stand as she entered, but she nodded curtly and said, ‘Sit down, Mr Swainbank. You’ll surely be needing all your energy with that terrible leg of yours.’ She turned to stare at Charles, noticing how he flinched visibly beneath her steady gaze.

Richard smiled wanly. She was still a bonny woman, though her hair had thinned out a bit and there was a streak of grey here and there. Aye, for one in her early forties, she wasn’t bad at all. ‘Sit down,’ he said, pointing to a chair opposite the desk.

She hesitated. He looked so ill, so shrunken and defeated by time. Dear God, if only she could stop feeling . . . concern for him! ‘I might do that. In a little while.’ She paused for effect, watching as the men picked up the frost in her tone. ‘’Tis about Molly Dobson I’m here.’

‘Ah yes.’ Richard spread out his hands on the desk. ‘She left us in rather a hurry, did that young woman. Pity. She’d the makings of a damned good little housekeeper.’

‘I’m sure.’ Ma’s eyes never moved from Charles’ face. ‘She didn’t leave, Mr Swainbank. The girl fled for her life, came home looking as if she’d seen hell itself. There’s no getting much sense out of her, so I’m here to ask you what you know about Molly’s predicament.’

Charles riffled through the papers, averting his eyes from the woman’s steely gaze. ‘Shall I go and see to these, Father?’ He glanced at his watch. ‘We’ve a meeting in half an hour—’

‘You’ve a meeting now.’ Ma stepped closer to the desk. ‘You’ve a meeting with me.’

‘Oh.’ Richard clicked his tongue in irritation. ‘We’ve a deadline to meet, Philly – I mean Mrs Maguire. There’s a contract wants signing by four—’